The Cauldron
by alarochelle92
Summary: The battle of Stalingrad from the perspective of two German brothers. Please review and critique.


**The Cauldron**

Dietrich Müller was a realist not an optimist and he knew this kessel was going to consume him. He sat outside a dilapidated wreck of a two-story house. A Mauser rifle lay across snow-covered knees. He had a piece of stale bread wedged between gloved hands. Eating was such a chore. Rumbling artillery cast a pall over his mid-morning breakfast. Shrieking rockets tried to upset his stomach. Rifle fire, crackling like fireworks, made him tense. Thousands of soldiers both German and Russian had died over this pile of rubble. How many more lives would Stalingrad have to take before the battle was over? Dietrich didn't care. Answers were hard to come by these days. When they did, anger was the result. How could he have been such a fool? Stupidity and rash action were the result of youth and idiocy. Or misplaced ideals.

December 25, 1942, an auspicious day, for it was Dietrich's 22nd birthday. What better way to spend it than killing Bolsheviks and trying not to die in this miserable place. Why did the subhuman Soviets not give up? Already three quarters of the city had been taken, yet their defense was as stubborn. Like lice, you crushed one and a dozen more reared their ugly heads. Blitzkrieg tactics were useless in the city. Narrow streets and tight alleys made navigation for the German panzers almost impossible. The job now fell to detachments of infantry going meter by bloody meter, every block and building paid for in honest German blood. Stalingrad would grind the 6th German army into a fine ash to be spread over the still warm corpse of the Third Reich. Was this what defeat tasted like?

His younger brother, Reinhard, wrenched him from the gloom. A gloved hand shook him, "Dietrich it is time to go!" Staring at him the older sibling replied, "Little brother the war is not going anywhere, it is all around us. You shouldn't be so eager to get yourself killed." Body language doesn't lie, crossed arms on a lanky frame told him what wasn't spoken. Dealing with the younger one was a pain sometimes, the war seemed to be nothing more than a game to him. Mesmerized by Nazi parades and pageantry, Reinhardt's excitement was vast, enthusiasm limitless. He had become swept up in the tide of Nazism that had overtaken the country. War wasn't a game, just an awful tragedy that took place when leaders' passions weren't restrained. In war everyone lost.

Dietrich had always been surprised by the strength of will the younger brother possessed. Nothing seemed to faze him because emotions came to Reinhardt in fits and spurts. Lines along the face and a creasing of the brow told a different story. The chubby, boyish faced remained stoic, blonde hair framing big, blue, eyes a handsome young man. Orbs that still showed, bright lights in the dark, mingled with pain. Yet every day he remained in this hell, those lenses would be a bit dimmer. What would he tell mother if Reinhardt was killed? Answers were sometimes too painful to bear. To not think about it was better.

"Come, little brother, we have wasted enough time here." Blonde hair bobbing, little brother followed bigger. Dietrich's regiment had set up camp close to the outskirts of the city; to get any closer was too dangerous. Ivan could be hiding anywhere in the ruins. An area had been cleared by pioneers and heavily fortified. Sand bagged machine guns bristled around the edges of the camp, tanks sat in neat orderly rows, and hundreds of tents billowing like parachutes in the wind took up the rest of the space. With December came snow, ice, and temperatures that would take a man's fingers from him in a matter of moments. The army hadn't been adequately supplied with winter clothing so rags were stuffed into boots, helmets painted white, cloth wrapped around faces and hands. If Ivan didn't kill them, the ever present, clinging, cold would.

Snow suits sent from the home front tried to solve the problem but there were too few. Wehrmacht soldiers could turn them inside and out if need be. One side white the other grey.

Both young men met up with their favorite sergeant, Ernest Schmitt. To the younger boys and men in the platoon he was a horrible, old bastard. A special place resided in his heart for the two siblings. Maybe it was because losses had been mounting. Dozens had died under his command in the previous year. Could he take anymore? But the jokes never left nor the stories. Sitting there, telling audiences a disagreement with a Bolshevik hand grenade had taken the left side of his face. Laughter being the thing that kept his sanity. The story was old but repeated time and again to new recruits.

Schmitt's face was horribly burned, a flap of skin where one of his ears used to be. Crooked smile, forever grimacing. Grown veterans couldn't stand to look at him for long. Loyal to those under his command but terrible to the enemy. A perfect soldier. Greeting us warmly, Schmitt paused before speaking, forming thoughts, "Boys we're leaving soon with the rest of our fellows. Ivan has set up shop in the remains of an apartment complex near here, it needs clearing. The word has already been given. We are leaving now."

Several platoons were gathered together to deal with the Russians. Mixes of white, grey, and dark green. Soviet felt boots were very popular among anyone smart enough to take them. Warm and insulated, a sharp contrast to the German hobnailed ones. Uniforms mishmashes of white camouflage, netted helmets, and dark cloth around faces. Safeties off, long handled grenades put into webbing, rucksacks filled with edible provisions. There would be no tank support, streets being too narrow, men would have to make do.

Off the column went, separating into groups once in the city, following individual squad leaders. Reinhardt always stuck with Dietrich like glue. Little and big brother trying to brave the horrors of war together. Detours had to be made, streets choked with debris or simply ceased to exist. Slowly, and inexorably, the men of the Wehrmacht made their journey, through snow, and ice nearer to their destination. Journey's end came into view, a foreboding complex, plaster walls, broken windows, and shattered blocks of concrete. Out of nowhere a machine gun began ripping through bodies, uniformed men dancing and toppling over. Red on the snow, mixed with dirt and debris. Tracers ricocheting between the houses, creating their own deafening song.

German guns returned fire snapping and banging, creating a crescendo of their own. Dietrich and Reinhardt ran into cover on one side of the street, almost tripping on the bodies of their fallen comrades. Schmitt bounded over, his short, rotund, form making him look comically inept at running. "Smoke grenades!" He roared. Surviving soldiers threw their long handled devices. Sizzling pops and soon a smudgy, white, cloud was in front of them. Bullets spat through it, making the smoke contort into lazy swirls.

Eyes wild, Schmitt cried hoarsely, "We have smoke cover now! Take those apartments! Forward!" Cheering, boots thudded and crumped on the street, figures disappearing into smoke, sounds of the screaming wounded and angry bullets.

The two brothers leapt through the smoke, younger and older following the other grenadiers. Withering machine gun and rifle fire spat from the windows of the four story apartment building. "Return Fire!" Schmitt snarled. Siblings and their fellow comrades begin to shoot, flat bangs from rifles, slow chattering from sub machine guns, and constant buzzing from MG34's. German portable machine guns were deadly, none more so than the MG34. Behind a pile of rubble, two Wehrmacht men stood, one using the other as a stabilizer. Shortened legs of the weapon were supported on the man's right shoulder. The comrade behind firing the weapon in short, controlled, bursts. Ammunition needed to last.

Soviet fire slacked a bit and the German troops sprinted forward. Schmitt and uniformed men in white and grey surged toward the first floor. Dietrich and Reinhardt were right on his heels. Grenades were thrown from windows; detonations and gargling cries of pain. Dirty puffs of smoke, whickering shrapnel filled the air, cutting men to ribbons. Flashes of light in the darkened windows cut lives short.

Breathlessly Schmitt said, "Bayonets! Ivan loves close quarters, be careful! Boys stay on my ass!" Both brothers nodded anticipation and terror scrunching their features. Dietrich felt as if his heart would explode. Thoughts of the younger one were always on the mind. Slotted bayonets gleamed in the dull light of the apartment. Room by room, every inch paid for with German and Soviet blood. No quarter offered or given, bodies piled on top of each other, carpets of human suffering and death. Uniforms in brown, grey, and white creating collages of color splashed with crimson.

Dirty, grimy, and exhausted German soldiers were about to make the final push and take the 4th floor. Soviet soldiers would spend their lives dearly and take as many German souls with them. Reinhardt was shivering, covered in blood and viscera, blue eyes wide. Dietrich had a shallow cut on his brow; a mistimed Soviet blade had nearly cut his face off. A tic in Schmitt's burnt face was twitching, the slit of his ruined mouth a grimace.

Hollow eyes surrounded by helmeted features made the final effort. Coats flapping and gear clanging the men pushed up the stairs. Immediately machine gun fire ripped through some, turning human bodies to ragged meat. A Soviet Maxim gun sat behind upturned furniture and spat steady, chugging, death. Schmitt pulled his last grenade from his webbing and tossed it down the hall; the bomb bounced once, and then turned the position into scraps of wood, cloth, and bits of human anatomy. Sounds of horrific keening cut through the small space, reverberating in the hallway, Fear clutched at German hearts. "Urrah" Urraaah!" A fearsome battle cry escaped Soviet lips, forlorn and savage. The last Soviet defenders charged from their bolt holes, wicked tipped blades eager for flesh. Metal on metal the slaughter was horrific, when the killing was done only a few Germans lived. Schmitt and the brothers were among them.

No Soviets were taken alive. The men of the Wehrmacht fell over from exhaustion, others wept, horror too painful to bear. Both young men embraced each other, shock and disbelief turning to joy because they were still alive. Schmitt's horrific face turning into a ghost of a smile when he saw the scene, concrete bonds of family made even stronger through immense pain. The cauldron of Stalingrad may swallow them yet, but not today.


End file.
